The Monkey's Paw

At a number of hospitals (over the years), I encountered situations where it seemed like some kind of patient disaster, was bound to happen, just around the corner. My take on it, is that the hospital corporate structure, was more focused on public perception, image, branding, and so on, and not taking the time to be focused on best practices, inside the building. 

Anyway, maybe I'm totally off course..............but give it some thought.

Don’t Ask Why

Without the usual

Irritating factors,

Overloaded circuits

And persnickety actors,

My poetic Muse

Has been unusually silent,

I have not been provoked

Nor caused to be violent.

I visited my pals

Last Thursday night,

It was an easy-going interlude

Not the usual fright,

But the stories they told

Occurring after my exit,

My Gawd it sounded horrible

Way worse than Brexit.

I wonder:

Does anyone care

About sentinel events,

When disasters are lurking

Near the picket fence?

This is like the King’s fresh clothing

Every single day,

It looks good on the surface

But there is Hell to pay.

When one is dealing with sick people

Sometimes they die,

Intervening on 3-vessel disease

We might not ask why,

Sure, we’ll do a risk analysis

As is required, by the law,

Then move on to lunch

Down at The Monkey’s Paw*.

I recommend, that if you haven't read The Monkey’s Paw, a famous little horror story published in 1902, ( you should read it)
authored by W.W. Jacobs. 

CCU

When I worked at the University hospital 88 - 2001, our Cardiac Unit was named CCU (Coronary Care Unit). The 1990's were the years, when the liquid diarrhea's that we now associate with C. Difficele, began to proliferate. The ICU's were becoming a stinky mess, and historically clean Cardiac Units, were not spared.

The Writing on the Wall

I'm really getting tired
Of all this crap I'm cleaning,
It's really not an issue
That the task is so demeaning,
It's more, the risk of splashes
When I clean those potty pans,
While my nostrils scream in agony
And I beg for scented fans.

I'm getting the impression
That something bad occurred,
I've read the writing on the wall
While no one speaks a word,
A change in nomenclature
A shitty point of view,
Chronic Crap, not Cardiac Care
A new meaning for C.C.U.

1993

What is Known

How we write, to avoid HIPPA, and still, explain our stories and yours.

If you gotta talk about your hospital gig; talk to a professional peer.Otherwise, the best person is your ESTL (English as a third language)  spouse. 

I realize, that what I write
May not be clearly understood,
Because I am processing an experience
The could have, should'a, would,
We all go through this method
As we analyze our actions,
I think talking about it has some value
To avoid terminal impactions.

To have a sympathetic listener
Another nurse, for example,
With experiences similar
Not so likely to trample,
Upon feelings and senses
Where we both know the stage,
Don't talk to a Child Psychologist
Regarding abused children, with our rage.

Henceforth, are the times
Where the writing wanders about,
When I rage at the perpetrators
I want to scream and shout,
But instead, I follow the protocols
What agencies to page and connect,
While in my dreams, I call the assassins
Phone numbers, address, and where to intersect.

Every individual person
Faced with outrage and mayhem,
Wonders, why we do pause
And not immediately slay them,
Where we name them as "alleged"
Although we hold the information,
And if they get the best Lawyers
They might earn a nice vacation.

So you see, I do ramble
As the words lead me on,
Exposing my experiences
What is known and beyond.

Fontius Pilate

Like Pontius Pilate (some kind of Testament of recognition), I am a persecutist of Font. Just so you know; my font and text handling is atrocious. I write in a consistent matter and don't murder the English language (unless it suits me), but my Font management is a failSorry

Let them go

No lead in here..........I lost another font war.

Why go on? When your body has failed, Why send a letter? That never is mailed, Why own a comb? If you've lost all your hair, You can't hold your breath If there isn't any air, Why go on reading? If it isn't making sense, Can you say you have a farm? If it doesn't have a fence. Why prolong the suffering? Of the one you love the most, Are your grief and loss so great? You are clinging to her ghost, Sit beside her, hold her hand Feel her pain and you will know, That love is giving and receiving; And love is letting go. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

While on the same topic of dying; here was the opposite approach, as shown by this loving and attentive family.

Humbled

"This Lady is fun" Her daughter said to me, The portrait on the wall Displayed her lovingly. She held her mother's hand And gently stroked her hair, It felt like I was standing In a sanctuary there. Her husband gazed into her eyes And only saw her beauty, He'd gladly suffer all her pain In love, and not for duty. The part I played seemed minor In the drama on this stage, I felt just like a footnote At the bottom of the page. "My Mother is the strong one" Her daughter said to me, And in a moments silence I was humbled by the three. 1994

Continuity vs Chaos

This is about that darn dream again; yet, it is relevant in one aspect. In the course of my career, I wanted different patient's every day. I believed I was more attentive that way, because the situation was new and different. I discovered, that if I had the same patient more than two days, I was likely to start making some assumptions based on prior information, and I might under assess the patient.

Many nurses want the same patient's day in and day out; plus, there is some institutional hype regarding "Continuity of Care", that is often touted to the public at large.

I awoke from that same old dream
A nursing unit drop-in,
It could have been a lot more fun
If Betty took me shoppin',
When I arrived, they made me Charge
So I chose the fractured leg,
Everyone gave me the stink-eye
While one of them even begged.

He said:
I wanted the patients that Peggy had
Like our hand-off from night till this morning,
He almost incited a riot
So I glared, as if sending a warning,
And as usual, I was so busy
I ignored my own patient, again,
This is my hospital nightmare
Last count, at one hundred and ten.